It suddenly occurred to him that his imaginary book of photographs might make a real impact abroad. Especially in America, where the Jewish organizations had some political clout. He could get pictures of old Jewish businesses from press libraries and shoot the rest himself with Zembskis camera. Getting it out would be a problem, but hed worry about thatand ensuring his own anonymitywhen the time came. And if anyone noticed him taking pictures of burned-out synagogues he could say he was compiling the record of anti-Semitic triumphs he had originally envisaged. He smiled to himself in the dark.
THE NEXT MORNING THEY walked to their usual cafe in the Tiergarten for milky coffee and rolls. The winter sun was already riding high in the southeastern sky, and as they strolled back along the northern bank of the Landwehrkanal it seemed as if most of Berlin had had the same idea. Effi had arranged to meet her older sister Zarah for lunch, something she often did when Russell was seeing his son. He had never particularly liked Zarah, who had none of Effis fitful ability to look beyond herself, and had married an ambitious Nazi civil servant. Soon after Russell met Effi, she had asked his help in arranging an abortion for Zarah in England, which he had done. Zarah had traveled to London, decided at the last moment she couldn't go through with it, and had eventually given birth to a boy. Much to everyones surprise, she had doted on the child from day one. Much to Russells annoyance, she blamed him for the fact that she had nearly had an abortion.
After he and Effi parted, Russell caught a 76 tram outside the zoo for Grunewald, and watched the houses grow bigger as it worked its way through Halensee and into Berlins prosperous southwestern suburbs. Pauls school was a five-minute walk from the tram terminus, and just down the road from the large tree-shrouded villa which his stepfather Matthias Gehrts had inherited from his father. Both school and villa backed onto one of the small lakes which dotted the area, and sitting on a low wall besides the school gates, Russell had occasional glimpses of sailboats between buildings. A couple of women arrived on foot to pick up their sons, but his fellow dads all arrived in cars, and stood around discussing the reliability of their mechanics.
The Jungvolk appeared soon after one, buttoning their overcoats over their uniforms as they walked to the gate. Paul half-ran to greet him, a big smile on his face.
So where shall we go today? Russell asked.
The Funkturm.
Again? They had visited Berlins radio tower at least half a dozen times in 1938.
I like it there.
Okay. Lets get a tram then. Do you want me to carry that? he asked, indicating the large book his son was holding.
Well take turns, Paul decided.
What is it? Russell asked.
Its the yearbook, Paul said, holding it out.
The Hitler Youth Yearbook, Russell realized, as he skimmed through the pages. There were 500 of them. So what did you do today?
The same as usual to begin with. Roll-call and gymnastics and then the history lessonthat was all about Germania and the Romans and how most history people get it wrong about them. They think the Romans were civilized and the Germans were barbarians, but in fact it was the other way roundthe Romans got mixed up with other races and got soft and lazy and forgot how to fight but the Germans stayed German and that made them strong. They reached the tram stop just as a tram squealed to a halt. And after the history lesson, Paul went on, once they were in their seats, we did some work on the map wallremember?were doing a whole wall of maps of Germany from the beginning to now. Its beginning to look really good. He looked out the window. Theres a shop down here that sells model soldiers, and theyve got the new set of dead soldiers. Someone at school brought them in. Theyre really real.
They would be, Russell thought. Death and toys, the German specialties.
If theyd come out before Christmas, Id have them now, Paul said wistfully.
They reached Halensee Station and climbed down the steps to the Ringbahn platform. And then we had a talk from this old man, Paul said, as they watched an electric train pull away from the opposite platform and accelerate down the cutting. Quite old, anyway. He was much more than forty. He came to talk about the last war and what it was like. He said there werent many aeroplanes or tanks, and there was lots of hand-to-hand fighting. Is that true?
There was some. Depends what he meant by lots.
I think he meant it was happening all the time. Paul looked up at Russell. I didn't believe a lot of the things he said. I mean, he said that the best thing a soldier could do was to die for his country. And one of the boys in the back asked him if he was sorry that he hadn't died, and the man didn't reply. The boy was told to report to the leaders room after the talk, and he looked pretty sick when he came out.
Did they give him a whacking?
No, I think they just shouted at him. He wasnt trying to be cleverhes just a bit stupid.
Their train pulled in, and Paul spent the single stop ride staring out of the window at the skeletal Funkturm rising out of the tangle of railways. Finished in 1926, it looked like a smaller version of the Eiffel Tower, which probably galled the Nazis to no end. The elevators going up, Paul said, and they watched it climb toward the viewing platform 126 meters above the ground.
Fifteen minutes later they were waiting at the bottom for their own ride. One lift carried them to the restaurant level, 55 meters up, another to the circular walkway with its panoramic view of the city. The viewing platform was crowded, children lining up to use the coin-operated binoculars. Russell and his son worked their way slowly round, gazing out beyond the borders of the city at the forests and lakes to the southwest, the plains to the north and east. The Olympic Stadium loomed close by to the west, and Berlins two other high buildingsthe office tower of the Borsig locomotive works and the futuristic Shellhausboth seemed closer than usual in the clear air. As tradition demanded, once Paul got his hands on the binoculars he turned them toward the northern suburb of Gesundbrunnen, where Herthas flag was fluttering above the roof of the Plumpes solitary grandstand. Ha! Ho! He! Hertha BSC! he chanted underneath his breath.
In the restaurant below they both ordered macaroni, ham, and cheesewashed down, in Pauls case, with a bottle of Coca Cola.
Would you like to see New York? Russell asked, following a thread of thought that had begun on the viewing platform.
Oh yes, Paul said. It must be fantastic. The Empire State Building is more than three times as high as this, and it has a viewing platform right near the top.
We could stay with your grandmother.
When?
A few years yet. When you finish school, maybe.
Pauls face fell. Therell be a war before then.
Who says so?
Paul looked at him with disbelief. Everybody does.
Sometimes everybodys wrong.
Yes, but. . . . He blew into his straw, making the Coke bubble and fizz. Dad, he began, and stopped.
What?
When you were in the war, did you want to die for England?
No, I didn't. Russell was suddenly conscious of the people at the tables nearby. This was not a conversation to have in public.
Did you want to fight at all?
Lets go back up top, Russell suggested.
Okay, Paul agreed, but only after hed given Russell one of those looks which suggested he should try harder at being a normal father.